Empty Chairs at Empty Tables
by Aisukuri-Mu Studio
Summary: .:C:. Bilbo returns home to a startlingly silent household, and a dining room that he can't bear to face. Not after...not after everything. Oneshot. "Oh my friends, my friends, forgive me..."


_There's a grief that can't be spoken…_

This is the part Bilbo has been dreading all along, he realizes, as he stands at the edge of the Shire and down the dusty paths and the rolling green hills of his home which…suddenly doesn't quite feel like home anymore.

He swallows coarsely and nods to himself, still standing where Gandalf has left him now that the journey is complete, and tries to assert for himself that the silence won't be so bad.

(But he never realized how lonely it was to be alone.)

…_there's a pain goes on and on._

When he makes it home, he almost doesn't want to open the door. And he, being a clever hobbit, knows that this not-desire isn't because he's afraid of what he'll find.

It's what he _won't _find, instead, that truly…hurts.

_Empty chairs at empty tables…_

And he has to come to terms with it—he knows—has to understand that—

—_now my friends are dead…and gone—_

—but he never realized that opening that door to look upon an empty house—when really, they hardly spent any time here in the Shire anyway, only spent a night before their journey began—he never realized that even the thought of looking at the places they had sat that night, where they had dined, his empty pantry—it might bring back their voices, their thoughts, their words, and their laughter…

He's afraid and he stumbles into his living room, looking at the fireplace where Thorin had stood, singing his song of misty mountains and trees like torches which blazed in the night—and feels so startlingly empty, he's not sure he's alive.

_Here they talked of revolution. _

So he stands, and he breathes, and he waits.

(As if, should he wait long enough, they'll finally reappear and sing for him again of their homeland, low and harmonious, lullabying in their sweep.)

_Here it was…they lit the flame._

Bilbo's fingers trace the fireplace mantel where the dwarf's elbow had rested, and through the chill that suddenly enveloped his being, feels a warmth—as if that place could suddenly connect him back to them. Back to that night of song and contracts and hopes and fears.

_Here they sang about tomorrow…_

Sometimes, he catches himself asking if it had been worth it. If any of it—the journey—the thieving—the war—the entire mission—he asks himself sometimes if it had all been for naught, because everything had ended in such…disrepair.

They went out as fourteen.

When everything was over, they came back as eleven.

Simple math declares that such a small loss should dictate a victory; a majority had lived, after all. Celebrate, it would say! The odds had been beaten!

But Bilbo can't bring himself to agree with such logic.

…_and tomorrow…never came._

Tea—he needs tea, he suddenly realizes. Something warm to try and combat this unsettling ache in his abdomen.

_From the table in the corner…_

Yet when he goes to his kitchen, he very pointedly does _not _look at his dining table.

He…he can't.

Not yet.

…_they could see a world reborn…_

But his hand shakes just the slightest as he places the kettle on the fire, and knowing it's not safe yet—he can't trust himself not to burn his own hand; not right now, not when he's so…well…—he places it back on the counter beside it.

…_and they rose with voices ringing._

Oh—they did—and he can—but that's not real—not right now, isn't it? That was then, that was when they were alive, but—he can still—he—

—_and I can hear them now…the very words that they had sung—became their last communion._

Bilbo's shaking so hard, his eyesight is blurring, and he gasps, trying to get a hold of himself. And oh…oh, his sorrow had never been _this _bad. Not even at their funeral, where he had been able to be so strong. Where he had been able to hold himself together. He had done it then—so why not now?

What is wrong? Why so weak? Why so sad?

But Bilbo knows.

It's the table—the table—the stupid, stupid, empty table that once was full—once made his home happy—once made _him _happy for once in his stingy, bachelor life—that table that was now full of scratches and dents from a household that once held rambunctious dwarves for a single night—a single night that had changed his life and was the best dinner he had ever had because he had made the best friends of his life then—

—but he still can't face it.

They're not there.

_Oh my friends, my friends…forgive me…_

Bowing over his countertop, Bilbo places his elbows up on it, and places his hands on either side of his head, trying to still his shaking and disquiet—trying to settle his mourning soul.

But that's not quite so easy when the loss is still so fresh in his mind, and their ghosts still so tangible and right behind him. Right there, in the form of damaged wood, chipped edges, and weakened benches, bended from holding the weight of several dwarves instead of several hobbits.

…_that I live…and you are gone._

He breathes, and breathes, in and out, in and out, and hopes the constant motion of that will numb the pain writhing inside so that instead, he doesn't have to face it.

_There's a grief that can't be spoken…_

But it's a foolish hope.

There's only one way to properly deal with this, Bilbo knows. And it would be far more disrespectful to somehow shove his sorrows under a rug of disillusionment than to acknowledge it first-hand—acknowledge _them _first-hand—and somehow honorably pay them his respect and his love.

So he straightens, and holds his breath in anxiety, because _this_—really, it's _this_, above all else—this is the part he has dreaded the most.

…_there's a pain goes on and on._

Bilbo braces himself, sets his mouth in a grim line. He has faced orcs, he has faced spiders, he has infiltrated an elven kingdom, and he has faced a dragon—by all accounts, he should be quite the fearless hobbit by now. There should be nothing that scares him.

Yet there still is, and in all honesty, it's as harmless as a fly to his skin.

(Unfortunately, not that harmless to his heart.)

So he turns.

_Phantom faces at the window—phantom shadows on the floor…_

And it's empty.

There's a table.

There are his benches.

And it's empty—

—_empty chairs at empty tables—_

—and oh, it is the most startlingly, painful buzz behind his ears that erupts as the pain inside becomes an inferno, leaping up to scratch at his tight trachea, and oh _goodness_—they're truly _gone_—and he has never known this sorrow before even when his parents died—

—_where my friends will meet no more—_

—and Bilbo lurches forward, reaching for something to stabilize himself, and manages to grab the edge of the table, holding himself up as the tears come hard and warm and he's shaking and sputtering for breath, and he just can't think. Can't think, because they're gone, and he doesn't know if this scorching, painful fire of realization is this fierce because he's been somehow bottling up this grief—

—or if it's just so much harder to bear because now he sees the visual.

_Oh my friends, my friends…!_

He can see the loss personified through empty silence, where there had once been companionable warmth.

And it hurts.

It hurts because he misses them.

It hurts because he loved them.

It hurts because some part of him still wants to go back.

But it hurts even more because this empty dining room is the vivid reminder that there is absolutely nothing there to go back to.

_Don't ask of me…what your sacrifice was for…!_

He sinks with weightless agony, as if the life has been snuffed out of him, to the closest bench, sitting and propping his elbows up on the scarred table so he can place his crumbled face into the shadows of his palms, where it might be safe to let his tears now flow free.

_Empty chairs…at empty tables…_

And it hurts, and his shoulders shake and tremble and he sobs and can't believe that they're just _gone _because they had once been all he _had_.

But they _are _no more.

And tear by tear, his soul is coming to grips with that painful fact.

…_where my friends will sing…no more._

"I'm sorry," he whispers to the silence.

No one responds.

* * *

**Crystal's Notes: **So angsty! ;A; I know! I'm sorry! (Although...I'm really not.) This particular, awful thing was born from a random idea of how the _Hobbit_ could fit in with the epic, wonderful, beautiful musical called _Les Miserables, _and then I remembered Marius' beautiful solo, "Empty Chairs at Empty Tables," and then...I couldn't get it out of my head.

It's just..._Bilbo. _It's _so Bilbo _after everything! ;A; After the war...after...wah. ;A; After _everything_.

Now, I know at the end of the real story, the Sackville-Bagginses manage to auction off most of his things, but for the sake of this little oneshot, let's pretend that didn't happen? Okay? 8D;; Haha...ha?

Anyway, enjoy! ;A; I do truly hope you enjoy, and please, have a wonderful day!


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